Twelve Weeks
by willywonka3435
Summary: Rewrite HouseWilson strong friendship, no slash, hopefully not as OOC as I think. I don't like summaries.


**I**t was raining, Wilson thought idly as he leaned against the wall of his office staring out the balcony door. It was raining, and the sky was gray, and the trees trembled in the wind, and the

(probably filthy, said his inner doctor)

water poured down, and it was oddly appropriate.

He'd gotten the divorce papers that morning.

Looking back, he supposed he'd known it would happen for quite awhile, ever since she started coming home late again, wearing that perfume he knew wasn't for him, attending meetings of a book club that didn't exist. But she hadn't even left him a note. He'd woken up, stretched sleepily, and reached down to greet Charlie, and Charlie hadn't been there. He'd combed the house, stumbling half-aware through the hallways in his boxers, calling Charlie's name, praying desperately that Mrs. Coxey, the doddering old maid from next door, wasn't looking through the window. He'd had no luck, and it was when he'd completed his third circuit that the news sank in.

She'd taken his dog.

His dog.

He'd spun around and headed back to the kitchen, and there on the table, easier to see when he was more awake, strangely incongruous amid her cluster of ridiculously elegant place settings, was the familiar manila folder.

The first thing he'd done was have a drink, a nice, tall shot of whiskey, and once he'd downed that one he figured if someone was going to have as bad a day as he was why not start it off right and had another. And another. And then he'd thought, well, the day hadn't improved yet, and topped things off with one more.

They hadn't touched in three months, two days, four hours, and—he turned and studied the wall clock—twenty-six seconds.

As a matter of fact, no one had touched him in three months, two days, four hours, and—thirty-one seconds now. Not so much as a brush of hands when the bagger passed him his groceries. Not even that.

It was stupid for him to keep track, he knew, but there were times, days, weeks, when he just needed touch. He was tired of walking around the hospital pretending that everything was okay, that his marriage was wonderful, that his job couldn't be better, aching. And he did ache. The need for human contact was so strong in him that it often became a physical pain, a burning sensation just under the surface of his skin. He wanted—he _needed_—someone to care for him. But there was no one, because a job was a job, and House was—well, House was House. Oftentimes, when it came to personal matters, the job was more of a comfort.

Admittedly, the first marriage had been his fault. House had told him that he'd been young, a pup, it was acceptable that he'd cheated—House said actually that he wouldn't have been considered "cool" if he hadn't and the Gods of Marriage wouldn't have let him turn thirty otherwise—and tried to reassure him in his own demented way, generally by making sure he was completely wasted and then abandoning him at the nearest bus stop, but Wilson knew House was lying, and Wilson knew the truth. If he'd been strong, if he'd resisted the urge when he knew it was the wrong thing to do, his marriage might have lasted. He might have had a shot.

It was his fault, only his fault.

The second marriage had been her fault.

That one he was okay with accepting.

That time it'd been the pool boy and House had been busy with a particularly hard case. Wilson didn't tell him—didn't bother to tell him, what was the use really and he didn't need another hangover and irate fat bus driver at six A.M. for his pains—until House discovered him sleeping in his office and gave him the Houseian version of a chew-out. That lasted two minutes before Wilson beaned him with the nearest loose object. There was no drunken sympathy because Wilson said he'd been the one who cheated.

(he wasn't surprised, not really, that House believed him.)

And now the third marriage—the third marriage was her fault, too, but hadn't he had a hand in things? Maybe if he'd been just a little more caring, just a little more considerate, just a little warmer, just a little _something_, she might not have felt the need to find someone else. She might have stayed with him.

She might have left the dog. Damn it, she might have left the _dog_. He'd loved Charlie. If there was nothing else he loved

(House)

he loved Charlie.

And that hadn't been the worst part of his day. Three patients had had to be informed of their impending death, and two had died. That was five people dying or dead. Five he hadn't been able to fix.

Four of them were under the age of ten.

Wilson sighed. The rational part of his mind knew that he was an oncologist and he had to expect death, had to, somehow, come to terms with the fact that he would not be able to save everybody. Had to understand that it was a waste of time, energy, and spirit to even try. The rational part of his mind glared at him and said, in a voice which sounded remarkably like House's, "You are a damnable idiot, you know that? If you don't like dying people, why are you a damn oncologist? That's what oncology is you know, _dying _people—well, that and _bald_ people, but if I knew you had that kink I would've shaved my head _months_ ago…."

Wilson abruptly shut the rational part of his mind in a closet and padlocked the door.

He knew why he was an oncologist; not because he suffered under the belief that he could save _everyone_, but because there was the fact that, if the timing was right, if he did the right thing, if he was there, he could save _someone_. Because of him, a person who would die otherwise might live to see their next birthday. Might live to see their child graduate high school. Might even be cured. And, ordinarily, that was what kept him going. It was always hard when patients died—but it was the most wonderful feeling in the world when they lived. The most wonderful feeling in the world.

House was a diagnostician. Wilson thought he knew why that was too. Being a diagnostician meant that he did not have to be too close to patients. House loved puzzles; he didn't love _people_. He'd been through too much to do that again. That was why House could not understand Wilson's reasons for going into oncology; because there was no way Wilson could completely protect himself from feeling sorrow when his patients died, because when you were an oncologist you had to be close, just a little bit, because House believed the profession was useless—the people would probably die anyway. He didn't understand the rush that came with knowing you gave someone an extra day to _live_. That was okay, though. That was why you had diagnosticians, and you had oncologists, and you had immunologists, and you had—well, you had Cuddy. Different strokes for different folks.

Wilson shifted position and pressed his forehead to the cold glass of the window. Drops of rain slid down the panes less than an inch away from his nose, and he began to ache. For some reason, he needed to be out there. Needed the water falling on his body, needed the sense that things would be all right again. Needed the contact. The acknowledgment that someone, some_thing_, knew he was alive. He knew he was depressed and sort of hoped that he would not do anything crazy, like jump off, but he needed to be in the rain so badly he thought he might take the risk.

So he opened the door to his balcony and stepped outside.

The city was drenched, and the air was so thick that he couldn't see more than ten feet without encountering a cloudy grey bank of fog. The skies were pouring. The ground was already puddled. Wilson was soaked within seconds. He took a few steps forward, stood by the edge of the twelve-foot drop, and stared down contemplatively. Not that far really, when you thought about it. Two men standing on each other's heads. Not that far.

Four children, three marriages, and one Wilson, he said to himself quietly.

That was him, standing alone. The cheese stood alone, didn't it? Perfect. Jimmy Wilson, Cheese. It was a more interesting title than M.D. anyway.

But they'd _thanked _him. That was the worst part. He could not _stand_ it when people _thanked_ him for telling them they were going to die. He felt like jumping up and down, screaming, asking him why. He hadn't done anything. He certainly hadn't _fixed_ it. He wasn't fool enough to tell himself he'd failed, but—regardless—they had no reason to thank him. And they still did.

Mrs. Ortiz, I'm sorry to tell you this, but I have some bad news.

Some very bad news.

Jorge doesn't have long to live.

No, I'm afraid not more than three months, tops.

Thank you, Doctor.

Thank you for being my Doctor Wilson.

"Hey, there are better places to stand than in a downpour. Like maybe under Niagara Falls, if you're _really _looking for thrills."

Wilson knew who it was. He didn't turn around. Of course not. He didn't have to. It was the same voice which was currently banging its cane against the locked door of his mental closet. It was House.

Great, he thought. A drop of warm water slid harmlessly down his cheek. He didn't realize he was crying.

"Four today," he said quietly, without turning around. He kept his eyes focused on the pavement he knew was below. If he squinted, he could just make out his car through the gloom.

"Four what?"

"Kids," said Wilson. He was ashamed of his own voice; it betrayed him. He hadn't thought he was _that_ sad, _that_ depressed, but suddenly, now that he was speaking aloud, it seemed he was. And he knew that if there was one thing House hated it was sadness. Tears. He'd never seen House shed a one. That was something House would do only in private. It was a weakness. It was something Wilson did only when severely drunk. Last time he checked, four shots of whiskey at six A.M. wasn't drunk enough.

House stepped forward. "Going to beat yourself up over this, too?" he said, becoming rather annoyed—that was never a big jump for House. "If so, can you at least do it inside? I don't want to get any more wet than necessary. This third leg of mine doesn't do too well on wet cement."

"I don't think I can do this any more."

"You know, this sounds familiar," House snapped. "I've had enough of the drunken reruns, Wilson. You may be PPTH's Boy Wonder Oncologist, Cuddy's whore, but you can't save everyone, and you gotta learn to stop trying. If you're gonna take that extra step, get it over with."

Now Wilson turned around. Tears ran from his eyes and danced with the rain. He stared at House and thought, in that moment, that he hated him.

"Wait a minute. That's not all this is about, is it?" The pieces began to fit together. For such a great diagnostician, it'd taken him long enough.

"No."

"Who was it this time? TV repairman? That hot nurse down in ICU? What's her name… Mandy? Mindy?"

"Look," Wilson snapped, swiping angrily at his face with the back of one wet hand,

(tears or rain, what difference did it make)

resisting the urge to tell House that the woman's name was Susan damn it _Susan_. "I didn't ask you to come find me. I didn't ask you for _anything_, and I sure as _hell _didn't ask you for advice." He stepped forward and brushed by House, grasping the knob of his balcony door and jerking it shut behind him.

"Oh no you don't!" said House, smirking, pulling the door open the instant Wilson shut it and following him inside. "No way, Jose, you aren't getting off that easy. When are you gonna learn they aren't gonna stay with you if you cheat on them? But you love them all—you love them all."

Wilson didn't even stop. He walked straight into his office, sat down on the couch, removed his shoes, lifted his feet to the opposite armrest. Lay with his face to the wall. This was his way of letting House know that the subject was closed. Of course, he knew House didn't give a damn.

"Staying _here_ again, I see. Has she filed yet?"

He was right.

"I didn't cheat," he said, exhausted. Though he hadn't felt drained before, the emotions

(and the alcohol he shouldn't have had—too much for a doctor, not enough to affect his facilities but _too much_)

from the past twelve hours were taking effect. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed fervently for House to _leave_. The prayer went unanswered. Well, religion had forsaken him before. What was stopping it now?

House sighed. He didn't do compassionate, and he wasn't about to start. "At least you still have Charlie, right, playboy?"

There was a strange noise from the couch. It wasn't as undignified as a child's sniffle; it was more of a choked inhalation, and the sound was so destroyed, so torn apart, so _sad _that House began, for the first time, to feel a tiny bit of sympathy. It was an odd sensation and one he was unused to. He realized that he did not like it. He limped across the room and harshly poked Wilson's shoulder.

Wilson didn't move, but House knew he wasn't asleep.

House sighed again. So he was going to have to do things the hard way. He might've just left if it had been anyone else, but this was Wilson, and his conscience just wouldn't let him leave, even if he tried. And oh, did he want to try. Instead, he grasped Wilson in the nearest accessible spot

(his earlobe, that had to hurt—shit, had to remember that he didn't care, be blank)

and pulled until Wilson turned in his direction. Wilson's face was contorted with sorrow, his eyes shut like he might block out the world if he tried hard enough, and as House watched a sole fat tear slid down his right cheek. And as House held his shoulder, having moved his hand, Wilson didn't move.

Three months, three months since he'd been touched by a human being. He didn't want to, he _really_ didn't want to—in fact, he found himself hoping House would go as far away as possible as _soon_ as possible—but he helplessly savored House's hand against his skin

(through his shirt and that annoying _tie_ Julie loved)

as he might have the priciest diamonds. It wasn't much, it meant nothing, and yet it was everything.

His wife wouldn't come near him. Wouldn't have touched him with a ten-foot pole.

(probably because he was not a twenty-five-year-old pool boy)

But House would. And House didn't touch _anybody_.

"Hey, Jimmy, cat got your tongue?" House said, hoping to piss Wilson off enough to receive some kind of a response.

There was no noise from Wilson, but another tear crept in the path of the first. Wilson didn't move, didn't breathe. House did, though, hesitantly reaching out a thumb and brushing away the salty drop, because Wilson never cried, not even when he was drunk. And he wasn't drunk. And Wilson shut his wet eyes, groaned quietly again, a sound originating from deep in his soul, a sound filled with so much pain that House frowned and tried to forget that he didn't do compassion. Because nobody needed him and he didn't want them to, but now he thought someone might and it wasn't altogether so bad.

After a minute, House said, "Wilson." He was surprised by his voice; it was rough, as always, but unusually… soft. It was soft, almost as if he cared. Cared, like—like _Cameron_.

_That_ was weird.

"No," Wilson said. "I'm not all right. Do you know something, House?"

Well, Wilson was talking, so _he_ didn't have to say anything, right? Right. Under no circumstances would he become Cameron. One of her was bad enough.

Wilson opened his right eye and glanced at the wall behind House. "Three months, two days, four hours, sixteen minutes, and eight seconds. Since anyone's—" Wilson's voice trailed away. He knew House didn't go for that kind of thing, and it was an embarrassing admission under the best of circumstances.

House stood silent, tapped his cane on the floor twice, waited.

"Since anyone's—since anyone's touched me," Wilson finished shamefully. His voice cracked

(shattered)

and he began quietly sobbing, tears leaking down his cheeks, falling damply onto the pressed collar of his shirt. His heart squeezed violently in sorrow, fear. Pain.

House hadn't expected that. There was a rather sharp jab somewhere in the area of his chest. He wasn't used to seeing Wilson cry, but he already knew he didn't like it. Wilson wasn't supposed to cry; he was supposed to be strong so House could go on pretending he didn't need anyone like always. But Wilson was crying, and House knew instinctively that he did need someone after all. Maybe, just for a minute, it would be okay to—

"Thanks," Wilson said brokenly, and he felt a strange kinship with the young patients he'd spoken to earlier, the children who were grateful when he said they were going to die.

"You're welcome," House said gruffly, because it finally hit him that he had to say something, and tapped a finger to another of Wilson's tears. The droplet glistened peacefully against his skin, and he tried to remember when he'd last seen someone crying, or cared remotely about the fact that they were. He paused and studied it in the light of the lamp. Wilson watched through glistening eyes, destroyed—it was a long way down.

"I guess now you can stop counting."

_end_


End file.
